Proscenium
by ThePro-LifeCatholic
Summary: Fate seemed determined to keep Erik Carriere locked in calamity; a tragic life, and a still more tragic death. Gerard Carriere could not accept that. Now that he has cheated the perfect end to an excellent tragedy, he must live with the consequences, which means living with the once-acclaimed Phantom of the Opera. - An Alternate Ending to the 1990 PoTO series w/ Charles Dance
1. Entra'cte

**Alright you guys. I have no time, spotty commitment, but what I do have is a passion for Cherik and a half-baked idea for a sequel to the 1990's miniseries.**

**I also figured that, since Cherik Appreciation Day is coming up (March 18), I'll post this prologue and launch right into the thick of things.**

**Readers can also keep of this story by following my tumblr: smokeyloki. I can't post links here, but there's a link to it on my profile page. You can also search for my username and you'll probably find me.**

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**Disclaimer: I in no way, shape, or form own any part of the 1990's Phantom of the Opera miniseries. All I'm trying to do is transform that horribly sad ending into a...bearable ending.**

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Proscenium (Noun): The frame (often golden) around the stage of most opera houses. It separates the audience from the stage and the performance.

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_When Erik was a small child, he used to play amongst the rocks of the Underground, building fortresses and whole villages out of broken bits of stone. Sometimes, during his scurrying from one place to another, his foot would catch on a piece of rubble and he'd dive to the ground. There he would lie and set up such a wailing that his distraught father was soon to be found at his side. A pair of strong arms, covered in a fine layer of dust, calloused and rougher than most fathers', would wrap around the child whilst reassurances were whispered into Erik's ear. Father and son would sit in the darkness this way, the child sniffling and whimpering, the father trying to shush each sound. Sometimes little Erik asked for his mother, to hear her comforting songs once more and to rest his cheek against her own soft complexion. Then the silence became like that of a tomb, and the father's tears mingled with that of his son. In those moments, most precious and intimate, there was no consolation; there was naught but that solitude which is known only by the outcasts._

_ Aloneness was a defining characteristic of each lingering memory. From as far back as he could remember, the father and his son had been alone, and the father suspected that this solitude would cling like a shadow even until their last moments. No matter how he pictured it, Erik's final breath would be witnessed by himself…or by no one at all. _

_ He had never once considered her._

_ Erik – how he had grown! Had he really been that little boy with the tousled red mane, unable to be tamed by his father's copious usage of comb and lake water? This couldn't be the child who had mimicked his father's prayers at night, kneeling on hard stone with his masked face turned dutifully to the bits of light that managed to pierce the catacombs' gloom. He certainly was a sight to behold now, with his well-pressed suits, slicked hair, and a supple stature that had surpassed his father's some time ago – his Erik was too still. He made no protest to his father's closeness, nor did he flinch when his father so-gently adjusted himself so Erik's head rested against his chest. He thought, for a brief moment, that perhaps Erik said something to him, a "thank you", or his name, "Gerard", or even that of his mother. But the ringing of the bullet still sung in Gerard's ear, so he couldn't be sure of what he heard. All that was real to the father was the warmth of his son's body, and of the redness which stained his vision: red tousled locks of hair which his fingers itched to smooth, a patch of crimson which colored Erik's otherwise-spotless raiment._

_ He was also aware of her._

_ She with the gold hair and the voice of an angel…never once in his imaginings had Gerard conjured such a person to be present at that moment. He could guess that Erik had never once considered it either, if his unblinking stare as she approached was any indication. It was as if he were afraid lest he blink and have her vanish into thin air._

_She was crying, her face distorted by sorrow. It seemed a lifetime ago that those same tears had been for joy as her beauteous voice – one blessed by God and sent straight from the Heavens! – had mixed with Erik's own. If Erik had possessed the strength, he would be wiping those tears from her cheeks, whispering to her the way Gerard had done with him. All Erik could do was stare, and he had breath only for a single word:_

_ "Christine…"_

_ The rasping tremor of Erik's voice pierced Gerard through, but it did not ward off the angel. Rather, Christine drew nearer, so that the distance between herself and Erik was all but nonexistent. Never had Gerard seen anyone so close to his son, save himself and his mother. Erik followed her every movement, his eyes trying to communicate all the words which could not be spoken. Her name was the only thing on his lips. _

_ When Christine moved to the mask, Gerard felt himself stiffen. He could do nothing to stop her, yet his heart clenched when he heard his son's piteous moans. The red stain had grown larger; surely every breath and sound was torment to Erik!_

_ Then Christine – sweet, innocent, loving Christine! – removed the mask, and Gerard was certain that neither he nor Erik breathed. But instead of fainting, or screaming, or turning away, she held his gaze. In fact, she leaned forward and, with a feather-light touch, placed a kiss on Erik's forehead. Her tears fell on his cheeks and mingled with his. _

_ When she drew back, Erik's eyes shone with new light. Never had Gerard seen an expression so peaceful, so bewildered, nor so enchanted. He cradled his son's body, but he could have been a million miles away for all that Christine and Erik knew. Their worlds consisted only of each other, and their gentle gazes remained fixed until Erik's eyes closed. He sighed, a soft, trite sound, and his head lolled against his father's chest. _

_ Only once Erik's eyes had shut did Christine look to Gerard. Her watery gaze met the father's, whose own eyes sparkled with unshed tears. She smiled at him, though it trembled, and a moment later she was lifted into Philippe's arms. The young man, hardly more than a boy, yet so stoic, so weary-looking behind his speckled eyes, tucked Christine against his side, and she nestled protectively into the fabric of his vest. Gerard watched them go._

_ There were so many things he wished he could say! Apologies, exclamations, well-wishes…but a gust of chill wind racked him and snatched the words from his lips. He could only watch the couple vanish behind a crest of decorated roof, a silent blessing in his heart. They would be happy._

_ Gerard rested against Erik's head. One hand moved to support Erik's chest – still warm – and he considered the body draped across his lap. How still, how solemn he was compared to Christine and Philippe! _

_ The policemen moved about, murmuring as they glanced towards Gerard and Erik. Gerard would hear their suppositions and suspicious rumors soon enough. Before the night was over, the opera would be abuzz with a new story: one of a man who'd finally lived up to his title of 'the Phantom of the Opera'._

_ "Come now, Gerard," one of the policemen said. He was dressed more nicely than the others, and despite the gentle tone, there was a commanding bite to his words which suggested a high rank. "It's late. And after what happened…" he gestured wildly in the air, at a loss to explain either to Gerard or to himself what, exactly, had just taken place. "It's time we all went home."_

_ Gerard didn't deign to answer. He pulled his son closer to his chest._

_ Underneath his father's steady clasp, Erik's heart fluttered._


	2. Chapter 1: Rien!

**On this day, in the year 1990, a two-part miniseries starring Charles Dance and Teri Polo was aired. The miniseries was _The Phantom of the Opera_, based on the Yeston & Kopit musical. It was one of the first screen adaptations of PoTO that I watched, and I instantly fell in love with the Phantom, Christine, Gerard, and the rest. **

**So as a treat for all other Cherik lovers, and in honor of today, I'm going to post this first chapter early. Ch. 2 is tentatively planned for a week from now. **

**Stick around for Ch. 2 of my Small Cherik fic, "Mauvais Quart D'heure", which I plan on posting tomorrow (or later tonight, if time and school allows). **

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**Proscenium**

**BOOK I**

**Chapter 1:**

**The Master of Fate**

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The carriage ride from the graveyard to his house was one of the longest trips of M. Carriere's life. A line of grey buildings and cracked, colorless cobblestones passed by the carriage window; the outside world had been robbed of all its usual hues. A light drizzle further punctuated this somber scene.

Gerard Carriere watched raindrops trail down the windowpane, caught up in some race with one another. His thoughts were far behind him, back at the small green lot dotted with black and grey monuments and statues of Mary, Jesus, and the angels. In the midst of them sat a tiny stone chapel; it was here that the funeral service had been held. Only a handful of people attended: there was Carriere, of course, and Mlle. Daae and the Count De Chagny, and a wizened priest with glazed blue eyes and greying wisps of hair clinging to a wrinkled forehead. Jean-Claude was there too, despite the pains in his knees and wrists. The opera's box-keeper, Mme. Giry, was there too, accompanied by a young girl with bouncy golden curls and an intense, wide-eyed stare. Of all the people in the opera company, Mme. Giry had perhaps been the only person to know not only the Phantom personally, but to have some idea of the relationship which he and Gerard had shared. She stood by her former manager during the service, watching all with her usual stern, flat-mouthed stare. However, before he had stepped into the waiting carriage to make for home, she had placed a hand on his shoulder.

"My thoughts and prayers are with you, Carriere," she'd said. Her stance and expression might have been unchanged to anyone who didn't know her, but Gerard didn't miss the significance of the words themselves, nor of the light softening of her gaze and the slight upturn of her mouth.

Gerard slumped against the cushioned seat of the carriage, letting his mind re-play the entire funeral. If only Christine had been more like Mme. Giry in disposition! She'd no doubt attended so that she could provide some comfort to Gerard, whom he knew she viewed as a kind of fatherly figure. In the end, though, it had been he who had to offer her comfort and condolences. Phillippe took it all remarkably well, and he had shared in Carriere's efforts to bring relief to the poor girl. Their attempts proved futile. She had cried into Gerard's shoulder after the service was concluded, her tear-stained cheeks not dissimilar to the coach's rain-streaked windowpane. His last sight of her was Phillippe leading her away from the graveyard. How small and frail she had looked, pressed against his side! Phillippe's arm was firmly wrapped around her, as if he feared that, should his grip slacken, she would be snatched away by a breath of wind.

This image chased Carriere through the whole carriage ride, dispelling for a moment when his ride made a jolting halt at the edge of a curb.

"We're here, Monsieur," came the gruff voice of the driver.

Gerard pushed open the door and stepped onto the grey pavement. A few coins clinked into the waiting hand of the coach driver, and M. Carriere whispered a soft "goodnight" and patted the horse's muzzle. Then the man took up his reins and the carriage rattled down the street. Gerard was left alone, a black top hat in one hand and a pair of white gloves in the other. Before him stood a grand palace of a home, but it bestowed a sense familiarity and homeliness that brought him an inkling of relief in spite of recent happenings. Leading up to the front porch was a gravel pathway lined on either side with little trees and paper-thing vines crawling over their trellises. The porch and front of the house were painted a soft white, and the set of double doors which marked the main entrance were rich maroon.

Gerard blew through the wooden doors. His hat and gloves were discarded on a small table in the front room, and his footsteps echoed up a staircase to the upper floor. A short walk down a carpeted hallway led him to stop before a white door with a golden knocker and matching doorknob, both recently polished. He listened for a moment, and his brows drew together at the faint, yet distinct, sloshing sound of water from the other side of the door. He paused, not quite certain how to continue. Then he spoke what first came to mind:

"Erik?"

There was no response from within, so Gerard pushed open the door and took in the bedroom scene from his unmoving position in the doorway.

The bed was exactly how he had left it that morning, and the figure nestled under a pile of blankets and pillows was still as death. Only the head, accompanied with a tuft of fiery-red hair, could be seen. Next to the bed, a short, reedy girl dragged a mop across the floorboards. Now Gerard realized the strange sound he had heard: the girl plopped the mop into the bucket, sloshing suds all over the floor and her shoes. Then she swished the mop handle back-and-forth, sending the dirty water into the farthest cracks of the room and under the bed. She paused only long enough to offer Gerard a cursory glance before resuming her methodical mop-swishing.

Gerard opened his mouth.

"He's doing fine, Monsieur," the girl said. She picked up the bucket, dumping quite a bit of its remaining contents all over the floor. A small stream of water trickled under and around Gerard's shoes.

"Nothing's happened since you left," she continued. She followed Gerard's gaze to her splattered apron, which had been freshly cleaned and starched just that morning. She frowned at it, crinkling her nose. Then she huffed a few strands of brown hair from her face and lugged the bucket and mop to the door.

"Excuse me." She wobbled through the doorway, taking care not to splash too much water on Gerard as she passed.

The door closed softly behind her, leaving Gerard Carriere in the silence of a guest room that may as well have been empty. He picked his way over the wet floor and paused at the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the four wooden posts that sprouted from each corner of the bedframes. If he stood very still, he could make out the rise-and-fall of the sheets which were pilled on top of his sleeping guest. Underneath a clean, skin-toned mask, dark eyelids fluttered as the man dreamed far beyond the world's reach.

Gerard settled himself on the edge of the bed; standing suddenly seemed too much of an effort. He stroked the coverlets with one hand, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles.

"Erik," he sighed. The name was hardly more than a whisper, a breath of sound as fragile as its owner.

Erik didn't stir at his father's voice. Indeed, he had made no movement since Gerard had him brought to his house and into this very guest room. If it wasn't for the reassurances of the visiting physician, or for the shifting sheets – an indication that his son yet breathed – Gerard would have believed Erik dead. After all, a gunshot to the chest, a fall from the opera rooftop, followed by a bumpy carriage ride and a spell of terrible waiting for a doctor's diagnosis? A dagger of intermingled bewilderment and sorrow had wrenched Gerard to the core; it was not an unfamiliar sensation. He had felt this way once before, and he groggily recalled it now as he watched Erik sleep.

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_Erik was hardly more than a baby, and his wails were shriller and longer than in past years. Of course, there was nothing more he could do but screech and cry, and Gerard felt that he was hardly better off. How could a toddler understand that, no matter how he wailed, his mother was not coming back? Indeed, Gerard Carriere, a full-grown man, couldn't explain it to himself._

_ It had been a particularly rough day for them both, one in which little Erik refused to eat, play, or be calmed by any means. Towards evening, as the outside world bid adieu to the vestiges of twilight, Gerard found himself sitting on an uncomfortable cluster of rocks by the lake's edge. His son had cried himself to exhaustion, and was now sleeping on the dusty ground. He hiccupped and sniffed, a testament to the fantastic tantrums he'd thrown all day long. Gerard watched him sleep._

_ What was to become of the boy? _

_ The question haunted him, both in his dreams and during his waking hours. Surely he couldn't be expected to care for him! Why, these past three years, it wasn't him raising Erik. He knew this without question; the boy's mother had known it, too. And yet her parting words, as she lay in a bed of straw, wreathed 'round with tresses of soft gold and with his rough hands clasped in her soft, small ones, had been for Erik. She'd pleaded with him:_

_ "Take care of our son."_

_ And he, like some fool, had agreed. _

_ Erik cried out in his sleep. Gerard hurried to hush him, stooping over the child and brushing through his hair. His touch was rough and awkward compared that of his gentle Belladova. Erik settled after a moment, scrunching into a small ball against his father. Gerard felt the warmth seep into his side, and he was so still that he could feel and see Erik's chest move as he slept. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but for this short time, his whole world and all of its energies were found in the small child who dreamed in his father's arms._

_ As for tomorrow…or the day after that…_

_ The Opera Underground was no fit place to call "home". It had taken his Belladova…and if the same were to happen to her son…_

_ …Well, then Erik would die._

_ Perhaps, he dared think as he leaned to place a kiss on the boy's head, that would be a mercy for them all._


End file.
